Ceilings

Her eyes shot open. Finding herself once again staring at a familiar yet foreign ceiling. Shit had been like this for a little over a year now, one place after another. Ceiling after ceiling. She didn’t care about the ‘where’, she certainly didn’t care about the “reputation” she was cultivating; slut, whore, bitch... unimaginative words. Thought up by dullards. People who regularly spewed those epitaphs were just as bad, or jealous.

She was just living up to what she had always been told: that she didn’t matter. Well. Not as a person anyway. So, really, she had done it. Potential met. Everything she had been promised and taught. She was, after all, utterly useless. Wasn’t all a tragedy. Most of these guys had air conditioning and an actual bed. It was better than “home”. Anywhere was better than that place. The longer she could avoid that hell hole (and it was a hell hole) she would, could, and did. A house rotting from the inside out, a physical manifestation of all the shit her parents hoarded. Both inside and out. Her inheritance, a legacy of trauma.

Some would dismissively comment that she had a strong case of “daddy issues''. She would agree; she did have issues with her father. He had failed at the singularly most important job he had created and given himself. Where, she was not a manifestation of the Hollywood trope. She was too mouthy. Harsh. In no way charming or quirky. There was nothing to save or redeem. Finding that if you speak to and about men the way they speak about women, they get very offended. Penises with the occasional personality, that bitter zing of misogyny. She knew how to dodge a drunken swing and take a sober hit. When you’re made of glass, you learn how to keep yourself fucking safe.

Rolling over, she checked her phone. Almost time for work. When was the last time she had been “home”? Days? A week? Whatever. Withdrawals. Multitasking at its finest. She'd walk off the turbulent waves of alcohol chills, and pick up an outfit at the shop once she got there. Maybe she'd even eat, if her stomach could - or would - take it. Saying her goodbyes and a promised text later. She was a mess, but even a mess can have manners. She laughed at her own sad joke, as she stepped out onto the monkey pod lined street. The cool morning air of a Sunday morning in Honolulu. Like the whole city was just as hungover as she was.

A sudden gust of trade winds swept through the empty streets and shook the trees above her, blowing away the cigarette smoke that clung to her hair. She could smell the alcohol seeping out of her pores. She should’ve showered. But then again, does trash bathe? I guess when it rains. She found solace in this morning ritual she had created for herself.

Outside, in the early morning sun, she could breathe. There was time to walk and just exist. She could pretend that she was anyone and no one. Lost in her music, which acted as the soundtrack to a movie in which she was the main character. Special. Beautiful. Tall and successful. All the things she was told she should’ve been, and all the things that she could never be. Working so hard to survive just to...what? Turn around and die? Was this really it? Was this really all there was to “living”?

Her tired eyes gazing out over the Ala Wai canal, she watched moon jellies lazily bob and drift in the murky brown green water. Slowly making their way out to the ocean. Away from this incredible, yet godforsaken island. She had always found water comforting; she had her own thoughts as to why. Being hers alone, and irrelevant. Her father would tell her she enjoyed water simply because it was all she had known growing up. Sure. According to him she couldn’t even shit right, so what did she know? She knew how to drink and fuck. Adding lane after lane to that superhighway of self loathing, self medication, and self annihilation.

Besides --what else were women good for? Certainly not their personalities. Even worse, their emotional company. She had completed all the required schooling, had never been arrested. Proof of eminent stewardship. What more is there to raising children? At least he was generous enough in his parenting to not have hit her. These thoughts swarmed her mind, imprinting with the music she had been listening to, solidifying those feelings in her for a lifetime.

The shop’s security gate opened with a loud clatter that echoed off the granite floors of the hotel lobby. She was pulling a “clopen”: a close and an open. The bane of any service industry cog. All the time and responsibility, none of the pay. After last night, a puke and rally kind of day.

The shop sold fast fashion. Packed floor to ceiling with cheap clothing, costume jewelry, knock off handbags and any accessory you could conceive, all from China, and sold at a reasonable markup. The till counted, the previous night's earnings dropped in the bank’s PM bin. Lastly and most importantly: the outfit. Down to the underwear, purchased. Another successful day of evasion.

Once her cashier came in, she would run downstairs and grab some water and a Red Bull from the food court. Best thing about Hawaii, there’s amazing food pretty much anywhere you go. Especially in Waikiki. Hawaii's food culture is its identity for many locals. An aspect the many continental US tourists failed to regard, or savor. CheeseCake Factory anyone? For those sorts, if you don’t know who or what you are, the island would figure it out for you.

Listlessly existing under those damn fluorescent lights and that damned pre-approved Muzak, she waited for her cashier who was late, at best; a no-call-no-show, at worst. It was almost nine. The morning glut of tourists, probably just waking up. There was time to reply to a few texts and browse corporate’s “hot trend list” for the next month. Pulling the items and redressing the clear plastic mannequins torsos.

Her deliberation about how best to accessorize these headless ladies was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. Wasn’t her cashier (because, of course not). It was, unexpectedly, one of the various sex workers she had become acquainted with during her time at this particular location, sauntering in about an hour or so before closing to swap outfits and maybe get something non-work related.

They were always fun to have around, always polite, cheerful and funny. The only rule: no Red Bulls in the dressing rooms, which they honored. She admired their casual confidence and impressively high clear heels. She greeted her customer with, perhaps, the first genuine smile she'd expressed in a while. The woman returned the slyest of knowing grins, coolly handing over a Red Bull. Bless this woman!

That sweet caustic liquid... a godsend. Double windfall. Her cashier had finally arrived, and the day was flowing. Like the Ala Wai - steady, sludgy, grotesque, but inexplicably beautiful. Creating that sublime expanse. Caring less about where you’re going or where you’ll end up. We all know where we’re going to end up.

Her gaze, transfixed upwards at the ceiling, filled with a quiet wonder, daydreaming about that last ceiling. What would it look like? Would it be hers, or would it belong to someone else? Would there be stains? Textured? Stark white, and seamless? Would it be what she wanted or what she’s been told she wanted? Hopelessly drifting, yet emboldened in the moment, she dared to envision her life. A life lived on her own terms, without being beholden, and the ceaseless waiting. Populated and cherished by people who wanted nothing from her, but her. Or maybe she’d get the only wish she’d ever wanted since she was five, to just disappear. Finally snuffing out that chaotic wildfire that burned in her for as long as she could remember. Allowing those around her to properly breathe deeply again, her last clumsy gesture of selfish kindness.

This story is dedicated to those who have found themselves adrift, unheard, used up and discarded.

I see you, I hear you. You are stronger than they want you to be. Or will ever acknowledge. You were never broken and I love you. You are beautiful resilience. I am so proud of you.

Keep making them choke.